


How Scotland Yard Seduced the British Government

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: holmestice, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: Navigating a relationship is difficult at the best of times. When it involves a certain Scotland Yard detective and the British government, the complications increase tenfold. They figure it out, eventually.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 19
Kudos: 199
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	How Scotland Yard Seduced the British Government

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



> This was written for the Holmestice 2020 Winter Exchange.
> 
> Monkiainen: There is a scene that briefly mentions an infidelity that is canon-compliant; it does not occur between the main characters of this fic. 
> 
> This story chronicles the relationship between Mycroft and Lestrade throughout all four seasons of the show. I hope you enjoy!

Mycroft couldn’t stop staring at the imposing figure across the street. He had seen him before, of course, through a CCTV lens, and from photographs attached to the paperwork of his background checks. But he had never seen the man in person. Pictures and cameras didn’t do justice to his commanding physical presence. It wasn’t just his shock of silver hair and fit figure that drew the eye, although those in themselves were… arresting. No. There was something about the way he held himself, from the confident set of his shoulders to his military-like stance as he passed on orders to his subordinates at the scene.

The scene where Sherlock had almost lost his life. Again. Although never in quite so dramatic a fashion.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he watched his brother leave the scene with that soldier fellow. Watson had passed his loyalty test earlier, and had proven himself an asset in terms of keeping Sherlock alive. All well and good, but Inspector Lestrade had been succeeding at that for much longer.

It was time to meet the man face-to-face, and see if they could come to an arrangement of some kind.

+++

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

The man glowered at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown; Mycroft could easily drown in them. 

He could also easily become distracted from his purpose here.

Lestrade made a production out of scanning the area around them. “Very dramatic and all. A darkened warehouse, in the middle of the night. No witnesses but for your PA over there in the corner. Look, mate, I don’t know who you are or what the point of all this is, but I haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours. We’ve caught ourselves a serial killer, and I’ve got loads of paperwork to catch up before I can sleep -- “

“ _Sherlock_ caught you a serial killer.” Mycroft made a face. He hated being forced into using grammatically incorrect phrasing. “In the process of which, I might add, he nearly got himself killed. So I ask you again, what is your connection to my brother?”

“Your _brother?_ Ah. So you’re the overbearing, interfering, stick-up-the-arse…”

“Yes, how very droll, Inspector. Very well. Since you’re not inclined to answer, I’ll do it for you. I am aware of your arrangement with him, to give him access to your crime scenes as long as he stays off the drugs. It’s worked, too, for the most part. I give credit where credit is due.”

Lestrade frowned. “I’m not looking for any credit.”

“Maybe not for his well-being, but you certainly take the credit for his solved cases, don’t you?”

“I’d give it to him if he’d take it, but he doesn’t want it. He’s interested in justice, not in getting his name in the papers.”

Mycroft threw back his head and laughed. “Is that what you think? That my brother is interested in justice? That proves just how little you really know him.”

“I’m aware. He doesn’t let people get close to him.”

“Except for this John character, apparently. Do you know anything about this Dr Watson?”

“Of course I don’t. Only met him tonight. Or yesterday, actually. Seriously, Mr Holmes, it’s almost two in the morning. Are we done?”

“Mycroft.”

“Hmm?”

“The name’s Mycroft Holmes.”

“Well, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft, but it really isn’t. May I go now?”

Mycroft sighed. The man was truly intractable.

“Would you be willing to form an alliance with Sherlock’s new flatmate? My brother seems to be heading into deeper waters as of late, and your cases may no longer be sufficient distraction for him.”

“Unbelievable. Look, if Sherlock keeps hanging around this John fellow, then I’m sure I’ll see both of them on the regular. Watson seems to have a good head on his shoulders, from the little I’ve talked to him; if he wants my advice on how to put up with your brother, he can come to me on his own. Until then, I’m keeping my nose out of their business. Now, could your assistant drop me off at my office, please?”

Interesting. The man was so very like John Watson, and yet not. 

He might have to increase the surveillance level on this one as well.

* * *

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Don’t you ‘Inspector’ me. What gives you the authority to reassign cases at Scotland Yard?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Mr Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please.”

“Mr Holmes. I can practically _hear_ you rolling your eyes right now. Dimmock is a junior DI, there’s no way he should be overseeing that case. And now he has to deal with Sherlock! There’s a reason, you know, that your brother only works with me.”

“Well, now he has a handler 24/7 to keep him in line. I think it’s time Sherlock learned to work with other people besides yourself, don’t you think?”

Lestrade huffed into the phone. “Do you have a problem with the way I conduct my cases?”

“Not at all. Let’s say I’m running a little experiment, if you will.”

“Experiment? Look, I know you’re Mister Big-Shot British Government Man and all, but you have no right to interfere with the Metropolitan Police.”

“I think you’ll find that you’re quite mistaken in that regard.”

“Bloody hell. What are you, the power behind the throne?”

“That would be accurate if the throne had any actual power these days. In any case, Inspector Lestrade, I do hope you find that little puzzle that was thrown your way sufficiently intriguing. It certainly doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to solve it, which is fortunate for you, given that he’s otherwise engaged. With DI Dimmock.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, or why, but I respectfully request that you back the hell off.”

“Noted. Good day, Inspector.”

* * *

Mycroft took a long drag from his cigarette, brow furrowed. Deep in thought, he barely felt the chill of the night air or the moisture from the snowflakes clinging to his skin. His mind was back in the morgue, and the vision of his brother walking away from him. Christmas Eve, and all was not well.

Who could he call at such a time, and for such a task? 

His mind immediately flew to one person.

Instinctively, his thumb flew over the appropriate keys. He didn’t even have to look down at his phone.

“Hello?”

Mycroft exhaled a lungful of smoke into the frosty air. “Good evening, Inspector.”

“A little late to be ringing me up, innit? And Happy Christmas to you, too.”

“Is it?” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “Heavens, it really is. Apologies for the lateness of the hour. Irene Adler was found dead this evening, and I need your help.”

“Irene Adler, really? Blimey. How’s Sherlock taking it?”

“Not well, which is the reason for this call. I offered him a cigarette, and he took it.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, she was a fine looking woman. I’m not surprised that she managed to get under his skin.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Really? You don’t think she was a fine looking woman?”

Damn the man. How he always managed to get distracted by inconsequential matters was a mystery Mycroft would never solve, and right now it only served to waste his time. “Not really my area. At any rate, as I’ve already stated, I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to check Sherlock’s bolt holes, round up any of his old dealers that aren’t currently incarcerated, and -- “

“Sorry, but I can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m off duty. The wife and I just got back together, and we have Christmas plans.”

Mycroft’s stomach dropped as the fragile hope he didn’t even know he had been harbouring died a little death. “She cheated on you.”

“Yeah, I know, Holmes, but this is my marriage. It’s worth fighting for.”

“So is Sherlock.”

“Yes, he is, but Sherlock is a grown man. He’s been clean for three years with no hint of a relapse. He’ll be fine. Plus he has John to look after him now.”

“John’s usually faffing about with dull women. Plus, I don’t completely trust him.”

“When it comes to your brother, you don’t trust anyone who isn’t you.”

_I trust you,_ Mycroft thought.

  
  


“You’ve known Sherlock far longer than he has, and you’re far more invested in his well-being. I fear that it’s going to be a danger night.”

“I really don’t think it is, Mycroft. Look, I do care about Sherlock. He’s like the little brother I never had, yeah? But right now, my marriage is more important.”

“No.”

“Mycroft…”

“For god’s sake, Greg! The woman was stepping out on you as recently as last weekend! When are you going to open your eyes and see reality for what it is, instead of whatever passes for your puerile little fantasies of ‘true love’ and domestic bliss, hmmm?”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. 

“Greg. I…”

“Fuck you, Holmes.” _Click._

_Damn it._

Well, there was only one other option left. Sighing, Mycroft dialed John Watson’s number.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mycroft chewed on the end of his pen, contemplating his options. Earlier that morning he had received several alerts on his phone indicating that his brother had broken into Baskerville. Watson was with him, of course, but Mycroft sensed the need for reinforcements. 

The problem was, Greg was on holiday in the Virgin Islands, and he wasn’t due back for another week. If anyone deserved an extended vacation, it was him. He hadn’t had one for over two years; the man was a workaholic. Mycroft thought this with no sense of irony whatsoever.

Relations between himself and the Inspector had thawed considerably since the Christmas fiasco. Greg had eventually come to his senses and filed for divorce. Since no children were involved, the process would hopefully prove to be short-lived. He had been sad for awhile, but he had immersed himself in his work. Much of which, by happy circumstance, involved cooperation between Scotland Yard and Mycroft's department.

But these weren’t the thoughts that Mycroft should be dwelling on right now. He mentally snapped himself back to the present, and was horrified to find he had been chewing on a Bic ballpoint. Appalled, he threw the pen in the waste bin and fumbled for one of his fountain pens. Damn Anthea and her habit of booking annual leave at this time of the year. She was in charge of organizing his desk with the _proper_ tools of his trade, and she knew damn well that the first quarterly reports were due at the end of the month. 

Sighing, Mycroft picked up his phone and punched in the familiar number. Really, he should consider putting this contact into his speed dial. 

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, hello. It’s me.” Mycroft cringed. What was it about this man that made Mycroft dry-mouthed and tongue-tied? He must sound like an absolute tool. “How are you?”

“Fantastic. Lying here on the beach, soaking up the rays. And wouldn’t ya know it, also wearing Ray-Bans. Can you picture it?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Listen...Greg. I’m so sorry to interrupt your holiday. But do you think you could find it in yourself to do me a favour? A rather large one, I’m afraid.”

“What is it, Holmes? I’m guessing it has to do with Sherlock.”

“Yes. He seems to have got himself into a spot of trouble. At Baskerville.”

“Oh lord. Is John with him?”

“Yes. But - “

“Right. Baskerville. Okay. Arrange a flight for me and I’ll be at your disposal.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be there in person. I have - too many things on my plate at the moment, you understand.” Mycroft rubbed his forehead and grimaced. On top of everything else, things with Moriarty were coming to a head. He couldn’t afford any distractions right now. 

“Right. A minor position in the British government.”

“Exactly. I’ll email you further instructions.”

“You owe me one.”

“Indeed I do. Thank you, Lestrade.”

* * *

  
  


“Mycroft, I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”

Greg’s voice was shaky, his composure audibly crumbling.

Mycroft closed his eyes and prepared himself. Distanced himself.

“Inspector, you need to let the process play out. Just do your job.”

“I’m supposed to go arrest him. Right now.”

“Then that’s what you shall do. Both of us know that my brother is innocent; it will be all right.”

“I really don’t see how it can be.”

“Trust me, Lestrade. And if you can’t do that, trust in the system that you have spent your entire career promoting.”

“I _do_ trust you, Mycroft, but God help me I sure hope you’re right about this. That Moriarty is a slippery character, and if it’s true that he’s the one behind all this…”

“Rest assured, Inspector, Sherlock is more than a match for James Moriarty. We have nothing to fear.”

“Right, good. Well, I guess I’ll just be off to slap handcuffs on your brother, then? Promise not to hold it against me?”

Mycroft almost smiled at that. Even in the midst of dire circumstances, Greg still knew how to lighten the load. For everyone.

“I promise. Good night, Inspector.”

The line disconnected. Mycroft slumped down in his chair, all of the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving him feeling like an empty shell. There was no relief at knowing exactly how everything was going to play out, nor any satisfaction in the knowledge that the plan was unfolding exactly as predicted. Watson would be devastated, Greg would be wracked with guilt, and Mycroft would be the scapegoat for all of it.

Sherlock thought this was a game, and that he was going to come out on top.

Nothing about this felt like winning.

+++

He knew this was going to happen. He had been prepared for most of it. It hadn’t been much of a surprise when John had stormed into his Whitehall office the day after Sherlock’s ‘death’ and clocked him on the chin. Mrs Hudson refused to grant him access to 221B, stating that she considered herself to be Sherlock’s next of kin and that she would be the one taking charge of his belongings. Neither of those two strong-willed individuals meant enough to Mycroft for him to continue making overtures. If they were out of his life for good, so be it.

What happened with Gregory had also been foreseen. Mycroft just hadn’t expected to feel the effects so keenly.

As expected, Greg had felt horribly guilty after Sherlock jumped. He had been entrusted with precious cargo, and he had tragically failed. Adding to his burden was the perception that Mycroft had lost a brother and was going through an agonising grieving process. All of that served to make Lestrade keep a civil distance. 

Then Watson contacted Greg for a pub meet, and spilled the beans on Mycroft’s own culpability concerning his brother’s fall from grace.

After that, Mycroft was persona non grata to all parties involved.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt as badly as it did.

+++

Mycroft’s attention kept wandering between the two screens before him. He was supposed to be concentrating on the one right in front of him, the one with the spreadsheets outlining the new proposal for military spending. But his eyes kept straying to the one on his left, the one showing the CCTV feed from a particular camera -- one that was recording a jovial dinner date between Greg and John.

‘Date’ might have been a bit presumptuous. After all, John had always sworn up and down that he _was not gay_. But Mycroft had never bought into those denials. He believed that Irene Adler had the right of it. And the evidence was there. This was the third ‘meeting’ this month. The first had been a get-together at the pub for trivia night. There had been a group for that, most of them Lestrade’s colleagues, and there had been much manly drinking and carousing. The second had been a more intimate setting, coffee at a cafe near Baker Street, just the two of them. And now this: a nice dinner at a medium-scale restaurant, complete with linen tablecloth and Wedgwood china. All that was missing was a candle on the table.

Mycroft tapped a few keys, and the camera zoomed in closer. Fortunate that they had chosen a table near the window. Both men were relaxed, smiling and laughing. Frequent eye contact indicated trust and openness. Their body language spoke to familiarity and easy camaraderie. It was either the beginning of a close friendship, or the progression into something more. Mycroft hated that he couldn’t tell which. 

Good for them, he supposed. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t last. When Sherlock returned, Watson would go running back to him like the good lap dog that he was. Where that would leave Greg remained to be seen. Mycroft couldn’t allow himself to hope.

+++

When the inevitable happened, it took Mycroft by surprise.

At Sherlock’s request, Mycroft had stopped by 221 Baker Street to do a wellness check on Mrs Hudson. She had expressed her gratitude by snarling, “Go away, you loathsome creature”, and slamming the door in his face. Since he was in the neighborhood and feeling peckish, he decided he would try out that restaurant that Sherlock was always raving about. By all accounts, the place was classy enough that he wouldn’t be embarrassed if he were seen there by anyone who mattered. He tucked his umbrella under his arm and set off on foot. 

He had just settled in with his menu when he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“Mycroft? Is that really you?”

Mycroft twisted around, mouth falling open gracelessly when he caught sight of the ruggedly handsome man with an armful of takeaway. 

“Grego - Inspector! What a pleasant surprise. How long has it been?”

“Ages. Mind if I take a load off for a sec?”

“By all means, sit.” Mycroft glanced at the bag of food. “Do you order from here often?”

Greg slid into the seat opposite Mycroft. “Nah, this is my first time. John swears that this is the best Italian food he’s ever had, so I thought I’d check it out. He used to come here all the time when he lived at Baker Street.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes, he and Sherlock both. In fact, this is the very table where they sat during their first meal together.”

“Is that right?”

“Mycroft! I never thought I’d see you darken my doorway! Anything you want on the menu, on the house! For both you and your date.”

Mycroft shot Greg a panicked look. To his credit, Greg just laughed and shook his head. He lifted up his bag of food. “I got mine right here, I’m just chatting with my friend for a few minutes.”

Mycroft ducked his head and smiled.

“As you wish. Mycroft, let me know when you’re ready. As I said, anything you want for free.”

“Thank you, Angelo. I think I’ll go with your deep dish lasagna and breadsticks, please. And just some water with lemon.”

“I’ll put your order in right away, sir.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft turned his attention to Greg.

“So,” Greg began. He paused and licked his lips. He leaned forward with an earnest look on his face. “Look, Mycroft… I’m not too happy with how our association ended.”

“Oh?” Mycroft broke eye contact and let his gaze wander to the street outside their window. “Our association?”

“Well, we weren’t really friends, were we? We were more like co-conspirators. And ever since Sherlock -- well. There wasn’t much reason for us to engage with each other anymore, was there?”

“I suppose not.” 

“Sir, here is your water. Your food will be a while longer.”

“Thank you, Billie.” Mycroft took a sip, relishing the relief the cold liquid brought to his dry mouth.

“Mycroft.”

His eyes snapped up and locked with Greg’s.

“I was so angry -- I’m still a bit pissed off, to be honest -- that you would let me believe that I had failed you and Sherlock so spectacularly, when you were just as responsible for the situation as I was. Everyone makes mistakes, Mycroft, but your biggest one was that you weren’t honest with me. I couldn’t forgive that, not for the longest time.”

Mycroft swallowed. He thought of Gregory’s wife and how she had betrayed his trust. “I can understand that,” he replied.

Greg continued, “But then I remembered that you had just lost your only brother, and that you must be grieving more intensely than I was. And you most likely were punishing yourself more keenly than I ever could. And what’s the point?” Greg shrugged. “What’s done is done. It can’t be changed. Wouldn’t time have been better spent helping each other through it, instead of playing the blame game?”

“It seems to me that you and John Watson have managed what you and I could not.”

Greg shrugged. “Yeah, he’s a good friend. Seeing less of him now that he started dating the new nurse at his clinic. Anyway, back to you and me.” Greg folded his arms on the table and fixed Mycroft with a pointed look. 

“Back in the day, I enjoyed our strategic conversations. I was starting to enjoy your company solely for its own sake, but then shit happened and all of that stopped. What do you say about exploring where we can go from here?”

Hope flared anew in his chest, bright and painful. “What do you suggest?”

“How about we start by meeting up for fish and chips every Friday? Or does your exaltedness not deign to lower himself to such depths?”

“Fish and chips every other Friday. On alternate weeks we’ll meet at my club.”

Greg beamed at him. “Ever the negotiator.”

Mycroft tilted his head toward the bag sitting in front of Greg. “I’m afraid your food is getting cold.”

Greg shrugged. “I’ll just pop it in the microwave when I get home.” He stood up and grinned. “Enjoy your lasagna when it arrives, Mycroft. I”ll see you next Friday.”

* * *

He knew there was an expiration date on their casual camaraderie; funny how that knowledge didn’t make the reality any more bearable.

After he had arrived back home from being the sole member of his brother’s extraction team, he had hoped that he would have the opportunity to take Greg aside and explain everything before common knowledge of Sherlock’s return had circulated. But it was not to be. A premature run-in in an underground car park, and Mycroft’s plans went up in smoke.

The anticipation of the inevitable phone call was excruciating. 

Days went by. It never came.

Friday rolled around, as it always did. Being the masochist that he was, Mycroft arrived as scheduled at the pre-arranged chip shop. He didn’t actually expect Gregory to show up, but he _was_ actually hungry. So there he sat at an outdoor table, a plate of food in front of him and a lit cigarette in his hand. 

“You bastard.”

Mycroft’s head jerked up. “Hello, Gregory. Have a seat.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’ve been smoking.”

Greg remained standing, arms crossed. He was frowning, but didn’t look as angry as Mycroft expected him to be.

“Yeah I sneak one every now and again. And so do you, apparently.”

“I assume that Sherlock explained everything to you, why secrecy was of the utmost importance?”

“Sure. I understand what ‘national security’ means.”

“Honestly, Greg, towards the end there I was on the verge of confiding in you -- “

“What I don’t understand is why you would keep John Watson, of all people, out of the loop. He has a certain level of security clearance, you know. And he could have helped. Do you have any idea what it did to him, Sherlock’s stunt? And now for him to learn that he was only a pawn, after all?”

Mycroft frowned. “You’re still concerned about John Watson?”

Greg threw up his hands. “Of course I’m concerned! We’re friends! Losing Sherlock was like losing a spouse, to him. You know what I mean.”

“Please sit, Greg. Tell me how I can make it up to you.”

“I’m not the one you should be concerned about. Not this time.” Greg stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and shifted from foot to foot, a clear sign of agitation. “I think we should put these meetings on hold for a while. Give you a chance to get to know your brother again. Perhaps make amends with John.” With that, Greg turned around and walked away.

Mycroft watched him go, heart sinking to his feet.

* * *

He told Sherlock that he wasn’t lonely. He warned Sherlock not to get involved. 

It was really too bad that he kept lying to himself, and that he couldn’t follow his own advice.

Now he was paying the price.

Work was the best antidote, as was grueling exercise. His career took off, and he had never been so physically fit as he was now. It was too bad that no one was around to notice or appreciate such accomplishments. At least Sherlock had laid off on the snarky remarks about his weight.

Time flew by, and before he knew it, John and Mary were getting married. He had never bothered to ‘make amends’, so of course he hadn’t been invited. Gregory had been. Mycroft would have enjoyed seeing him in a posh suit. 

Mycroft put it out of his mind as he stepped onto the treadmill. He had better things to do with his time.

+++

He was weak. Sentiment had clouded his judgement, and now he found himself in the shadows, outside looking in. Quite literally. He was at John and Mary’s reception venue, standing in the garden and peering in the window like the creepy voyeur that he was. How the mighty had fallen. 

But it had been worth it. There he was, swaying to the music as he watched John and Mary dance, looking as dapper as ever. Career advancement clearly suited him. Why he hadn’t yet been snapped up by some eligible young bachelor - or by some beautiful young lady - was a mystery for the ages.

Unless…

Mycroft looked closer. The soft look on Greg’s face could be described as… wistful. Yearning. Pining? The inspector’s eyes never strayed from the waltzing bride and groom. Mary was certainly not Greg’s type, but John?

Was Greg nursing a broken heart?

Mycroft turned his back on the scene and sought the refuge of a nearby tree. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. 

He watched Sherlock as he left the wedding early, off to another danger night, presumably. Mycroft waited for the urgency to set in, the familiar restless energy that always moved him forward in service of protecting his brother from harm. 

It didn't come. 

The sound of another lighter clicking to life startled him.

“What are you doing skulking out here in the shadows?” Greg took a puff of his cigarette and grinned at him.

“Inspector. I… I was… what I mean to say is -- “

“I know. Moral support for Sherlock, in the only way you could. S’okay. I won’t tell.”

Greg’s eyes were bright. Mycroft couldn’t tell if his cheeks were flushed, but his breath definitely smelled of alcohol.

“Are you drunk, Inspector?”

Greg laughed. He glanced at his cigarette with distaste and threw the remainder on the ground, grinding it out with his shoe. “Been trying to quit. Doesn’t taste so good anymore. To answer your question, I’m not quite drunk, but I’m feeling a bit giddy.” He turned to Mycroft and let his gaze travel the length of his body. He let out a low whistle.

“Wow. You look good, Mycroft. Really good. Been working out?”

Mycroft flushed. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Thought so. Sherlock stop making digs at your weight?”

“Yes. How did you -- “

“I asked him to knock it off. Well, I didn’t ask. The bastard needs to start acting his age.”

Mycroft was strangely warmed by the sentiment. He chuckled. “Chance would be a fine thing. Especially now that John’s otherwise engaged.”

“Yeah.” Greg’s smile faded as he stared off in the direction of Sherlock’s exit.

Mycroft swallowed. He opened his mouth, and asked the question before his brain could stop himself. “Gregory, are you in love with John Watson?”

Greg giggled. Actually _giggled._ “Have you ever asked Sherlock that question?” 

“It’s quite obvious what Sherlock’s answer would be. I’m asking you.”

“Why?” Greg stepped closer, eyes locked with Mycroft’s. They weren’t quite so bright anymore; in fact, they seemed to have darkened considerably. “Why are you asking me that question?”

Mycroft took a step back. “I -- I need to know.”

Greg took another step forward. “Why?”

Mycroft continued to retreat. “Because I hate not knowing.”

“Ah. Because that’s what you’re most proud of, yeah? Knowing things?”

His backward momentum was halted by the trunk of a large tree. Closed in, trapped. His composure snapped.

“If I don’t know where you stand with _him,_ how am I supposed to know where you stand with _me?”_

Greg’s eyes widened. He snatched Mycroft’s cigarette from his hand and tossed it aside, careless of the still glowing ember. He grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders, surged forward and kissed him, rough and hard. His hands rose to cradle Mycroft’s head, and the kiss gentled. After the initial surprise, Mycroft’s eyes slid shut, and he gave himself over to _feelings._

Something stirred in his lower parts that had lain dormant for a very long time.

When they finally pulled apart, Mycroft was dizzy from lack of oxygen. Greg’s warm breath puffed against his skin. He finally opened his eyes when Greg stepped back and he could no longer feel the inspector’s hands on him.

The full moon limned Greg’s head, serving nicely as a halo. He was breathtakingly beautiful.

“Gregory…” Mycroft breathed.

“Do you have your answer now?” Greg asked softly. 

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Come home with me, then?”

“Yes.”

Before they left, Mycroft had the presence of mind to seek out the spent dog-end and snuff it out.

* * *

Mycroft would never get tired of waking up like this. Slowly, languorously, muscles aching in places that proved he had recently been most thoroughly and delightfully fucked. He lay with his eyes closed, secure in the knowledge that his bedfellow remained at his side. Greg’s quiet breaths, slow and steady, were a balm to Mycroft’s newly awakened heart. 

It had been a month since that first night, when they had stumbled into Gregory’s flat, one of them tipsy from a night of drinking and dancing, while the other was a bundle of nerves. It had been fumbling, awkward, and the most satisfying sex Mycroft had had in a very long time. Afterwards the anxiety started clawing at him, and he had slipped out while Greg had been taking a post-coital shower. 

It got better after that. 

Mycroft didn’t know how often one usually had sex at the beginning of a relationship, but he thought they were having an awful lot of it. Granted, they’d known each other for years before they so much as kissed, but then they had tumbled into bed only hours after that first kiss. It felt a bit… slutty. 

He found that he didn’t care all that much. Not when a good portion of his days were spent feeling as giddy as a schoolboy. 

Last night had been the first that Gregory had spent at Mycroft’s house. Not his townhouse in London, where they had already spent several evenings and nights, but his manor in the country. Greg had taken it in stride, not at all awed or intimidated by the large house and the sprawling property it sat upon. They had watched an old black and white movie in Mycroft’s film room, and had retired at the fairly early hour of 10 p.m. Of course, sleeping was not on the agenda until well after 2. 

Thank goodness it was a Saturday, and neither of them was scheduled to work that weekend.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” a gravelly voice murmured in his ear. 

Mycroft smiled. “How did you know I was awake?”

“Breathing patterns. Also I’m getting to recognize other signs and portents. I’m not completely unobservant, you know.”

“Hmm. Good thing you’re a detective, then.”

“Indeed.” Greg rolled over and reached for him, unashamedly mingling his morning breath with Mycroft’s as their mouths slid together. This was Mycroft’s favourite part. Morning sex was lovely, but it was this gentle, intimate foreplay that Mycroft cherished the most. Languid, unhurried kisses. Legs tangling together as hands stroked and fondled, bare chests pressed together, slow buildup of heat between their -- 

The piercing tones of his mobile shrilled harshly through the room.

“Oh for the love of…” Mycroft pulled away and slumped into his pillow, arm draped across his forehead. “That’s Watson’s ringtone, I have to get it.”

Greg snorted. “‘God Save the Queen’? Seriously?”

Mycroft threw him a dirty look. “Don’t you dare tell him.” He sat up and grabbed his phone from the night stand. He kept his back to Greg as he answered.

“John. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His grip on the phone tightened as he listened, knuckles white. The hairs on his neck prickled, and a shiver ran up his spine. The old familiar fear was back.

“I’ll meet you at Baker Street directly,” he said tersely before hanging up. He covered his mouth with his hand as he centered himself.

He should have known. The high of his new relationship had kept him distracted, assigning nary a thought to Sherlock for almost an entire month. Surveillance reports had gone unread, Baker Street had gone unvisited, and Mycroft had become so used to John Watson keeping an eye out that he hadn’t thought _twice_ about any of it. 

“Is it Sherlock?” Greg asked softly. He placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezed. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Mycroft stiffened. He closed his eyes and breathed in, breathed out. He couldn’t shut Gregory out because of this. Falling back into old habits of distancing himself from everybody who cared was not the solution. Not if he wanted… whatever this was, to last beyond today’s date. 

“Not this time, but thank you, Gregory.” He turned his head and pressed a quick kiss on Greg’s lips. “I’ll contact you later, once I get this sorted. It seems that my brother has gone back on the sauce.”

+++

  
  


Sherlock hadn’t _just_ gone back on the sauce; the situation was much more complicated - and insidious - than that. Magnussen, that most vile of human beings, had captured Sherlock’s attention. And once Sherlock’s interest was piqued, he was like a dog with a bone. And it often ended badly. Cue Moriarty, Irene Adler, and any other adversary who could match Sherlock in cleverness. But Magnussen was the most dangerous yet. The man had his fingers in many pies, political and otherwise. What he was involved in was way beyond Sherlock’s pay grade. But Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see it until it was far too late.

Sherlock’s supposed descent into drugs, the shooting that nearly killed him, and the shocking denouement at Appledore all served to distract Mycroft from giving his fledgling relationship the proper attention that it deserved… that Gregory deserved. But he couldn’t do anything less; this was _family,_ and family always came first.

He first realised his mistake when Christmas rolled around.

+++

He really did not like this holiday, not in the least. Sherlock pretended not to, but in reality he loved it as much now as he did when he had been a child.

His mistake was more thoughtless than intentional, but the effect was still the same. Gregory’s feelings were hurt. And Gregory was not someone who easily took offense at personal slights, intentional or otherwise. Hell, he still had a healthy grip on his ego after being called an idiot for years by Sherlock Holmes. And he was never jealous of the job, because his own career was almost as demanding as Mycroft’s. 

But this wasn’t a separation due to work obligations. This was a completely different kettle of fish.

“Our first Christmas, Mycroft. Thought we’d be spending it together, now that Sherlock’s on the mend.”

Mycroft finished his text to Anthea before focussing his attention back on the meal in front of him. The sounds of the bustling restaurant flowed back into his consciousness.

“I know, Gregory, and I am sorry. Mummy is insisting that I join the rest of the family for Christmas dinner this year, something I haven’t done in close to a decade. All in celebration of Sherlock’s ‘miraculous recovery’, apparently.”

“Oh. Well, that’s different, innit? I can understand family obligations. I just assumed you weren’t getting together with them for Christmas, per usual.” Greg scooped a forkful of pasta into his mouth and groaned with delight. “Hmmmm. So good! I’m bloody starving.”

“Believe me, I would beg off if I could. Especially since Sherlock is insisting on bringing both John and Mary along with him.”

Greg stilled in the act of reaching for his wine glass. 

“Sherlock’s bringing John and Mary?”

“Evidently.”

“Thought it was family only.”

“Sherlock considers them family.”

Hurt flashed across Greg’s face, so fast that Mycroft wasn’t sure he had interpreted it correctly. It was almost immediately replaced with an expression that Mycroft couldn’t parse. Greg stood up, took some bills out of his wallet, and threw them down next to his plate. Shoving his arms into his coat, he said, “Sorry, I just remembered I was supposed to send the superintendent a report by the end of the day. Gotta go back to the office and do that.”

“Don’t you want to take your food with you? You said you were starving. And put that money away, I said I was paying this time.”

“It’s fine. No worries, I gotta… take care of this, I can’t believe I forgot. See you later, Mycroft.”

And with that, Gregory Lestrade stalked out of the restaurant, shoulders hunched and gait unsteady.

Mycroft closed his eyes as he realised what had just happened.

Greg didn’t care whether or not _Sherlock_ considered him family. He cared that _Mycroft_ apparently didn’t.

  
  


+++

  
  


Mycroft and Sherlock stood in their parents’ garden on Christmas day, both of them smoking. They stood together in silent solidarity for several minutes before Sherlock broke the spell.

“How long have you and Lestrade been sleeping together?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out months ago.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “The wedding. Lestrade found you lurking outside, one thing led to another, until all of that repressed sexual tension finally exploded and he had his way with you. How am I doing so far?”

Mycroft grimaced. “Charming, as always.”

“It isn’t just sex, though, is it? It’s much more than that. Interesting.”

“Can we talk about something else, please? _Anything_ else.”

Sherlock blew out a lungful of smoke into the winter air. “He could be good for you, I think. Don’t fuck this one up, Mycroft. There’s only so many people who are able to tolerate you, me being one of them.”

Mycroft studied his fingernails. “We are not currently speaking. He has, by all appearances - what is that dreadful expression? - ‘ghosted’ me.”

Sherlock shook his head, clucking his tongue in a most annoying fashion. “Too bad. I would have relished another go at a best man’s speech, now that I’ve had the practice.”

“And whose best man do you imagine yourself being?”

Sherlock scowled.

The day only went downhill from there.

+++  
  


They never officially broke up. They slipped back into what had passed for their congenial association in the months before Sherlock’s fall. Mycroft kept avoiding the conversation that he knew they had to have, until by virtue of sheer attrition, the urgency faded into the background, and they were both caught up with more pressing matters. Appledore, cases galore, Rosie’s birth and baptism, Vivien Norbury, Culverton Smith… one crisis after another, until ---

Sherrinford.

  
  
  


* * *

* * *

* * *

  
  
  


Greg sat at his desk with his head in his hands. The pounding headache, which had started last evening, was only getting worse. He craved caffeine. He craved nicotine. He couldn’t have either of those things because a) due to his high blood pressure he had already had his limit of 2 cups of coffee, all by 9 a.m., and b) he had a pact with Mycroft Holmes to never again touch another cigarette.

God, he missed Mycroft. Or rather, he missed their former intimacy. Not just the romance -- although god, the sex had been fantastic -- but the closeness that went beyond mere friendship. The warmth that had suffused him each time he woke up in bed with Mycroft by his side. The lazy breakfasts when they would both sit at the table in their dressing gowns and bare feet, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. That day in the park when they sat close enough for their legs to touch, watching the ducks; a scene that spoke to more than colleagues, but otherwise undefined to the casual observer.

Today he missed that relationship with a physical ache, and not just in his head. 

He rubbed his temples and forced himself to click onto his computer. The case wasn’t going to solve itself, after all. It was a doozy; it had kept his team chasing their tails for the better part of a week, with no solution in sight. He just might have to call Sherlock in on this one, now that the man had his head on straight again. 

He could run it by Mycroft, he supposed, get another perspective. At least Greg wouldn’t have to worry about him having the proper security clearance; the idea that there was anything outside of Mycroft’s sphere of influence was laughable, at least when it came to Scotland Yard.

He was in the process of dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin when his mobile buzzed.

“DCI Lestrade. Yeah? Oh, hello Anthea. What can I do for you?”

+++

Greg flew out of the cab, stumbling in his haste. He rounded the corner, and stopped short at the sight before him. All of his hopes that this had been a terrible mistake, vanished like insubstantial mist. Black smoke billowed into the air and flames licked at the second storey windows. An ambulance pulled away from the kerb, lights flashing but no siren.The fire brigade was furiously trying to quell the fire. 

Greg stood well away from the scene. His body, his brain, both frozen in place. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. He blinked back tears as he reached for his phone and called Anthea back.

“Anthea, tell me everything. What the hell happened?”

He listened in disbelief as Anthea delivered her summary of events. Mrs Hudson was unharmed but was being taken to hospital out of an abundance of caution. There was no sign of either Sherlock or John. As for Mycroft -- 

“He’s in critical care, Inspector.” Her voice hitched just once, otherwise it was as smooth as it ever was. “He was taken directly into surgery; I’m told it will be some time before we know anything. And before you ask, no visitors will be allowed. And Scotland Yard will not be investigating. You must understand, this is a matter of national security.”

Greg rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Of course it is. Thank you for notifying me, Anthea. You will keep me updated, as much as you are able?”

“Of course, Inspector. Take care.” And with that abrupt dismissal, she rang off.

Numb, Greg continued to stare at the inferno in front of him. It was still blazing brightly, as if it had just happened moments ago. That couldn’t be right, could it? Anthea had said that Mycroft was already at the hospital, already in surgery even. That was one hell of a response time. Considering the object of said rescue, Greg guessed he shouldn’t be all that surprised.

Nevertheless, he was unnerved by the whole thing. He couldn’t imagine just going back to work and trying to concentrate on this case, one that required more than the usual amount of mental energy and leg work. Sherlock and John were missing, perhaps dead. Mycroft was fighting for his life, and from the sound of it there was a better than even chance that he would lose. The man that he loved -- yes, he could admit that now -- might die, and Greg had never told him. 

How the fuck was he supposed to go back to work?

But he did, because there was no other choice.

+++

He didn’t hear anything for two full days. On the third day, he received the most gratifying phone call of his career.

He was informed that all three men were alive and accounted for, and could he make his way with all due haste to a place called Musgrave Hall?

+++

He had never been so relieved. He wasn’t even angry over the elaborate deception perpetrated not only on him, but on the entirety of London. Anthea hadn’t been quite so sanguine; she kept up a blistering, profanity-laced tirade for the entire helicopter ride to the hospital. It didn’t seem to matter to her that Mycroft was so drugged up that he couldn’t possibly digest a word of it. She remained long enough to see him admitted to hospital, then left in a huff after a parting shot about how he could expect her resignation in the morning. Greg doubted she’d follow through.

Mycroft was miraculously unhurt, despite recovering from whatever sedative Euros had dosed him with. The story that Sherlock had told Greg beggared all rational belief. A secret sister? A super secret government facility on what was essentially Shutter Island? It was all so crazy that it had the name ‘Holmes’ written all over it, which actually made it all easier to accept.

If Mycroft’s brother could return from the dead, then why couldn’t his sister control everyone with her mind? 

Greg shook himself. If he thought too much about it he would just get the willies. Best not to dwell. He pushed himself upright in the uncomfortable plastic chair he had been sitting in for the past three hours, and forced his attention onto the man in the hospital bed. 

The man that he loved beyond all reason. 

He would tell him as soon as he woke up.

+++

“Greg?”

Greg blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Must have. Groggy, he rubbed his eyes and looked around.

“Gregory.”

The slight edge of exasperation mingled with fondness sobered him up immediately. His head whipped around and he was greeted with the sweetest sight for his sore eyes. Mycroft Holmes was propped up in bed, eyes bright and alert. A smile teased at the corner of his lips. 

“I was wondering when you’d finally wake up. You realise that you slept through the entire mob of nurses and doctors that were parading through here not an hour ago? You’d think by their behaviour that I’d just woken from a weeks-long coma.”

Greg smiled. “How do you know you haven’t?”

“I’ve been in a weeks-long coma before. I know what it feels like.”

Greg gaped at him. “You were in - “

Mycroft waved his hand. “It was way before your time, Gregory. Don’t trouble yourself over it. Ancient history.”

Greg huffed. “I have a feeling I’ll be learning quite a lot about that ‘ancient history’ in the near future.”

“Are you very angry with me, Gregory?”

“No. I’m not angry at all.”

Mycroft tilted his head and regarded him thoughtfully. “Interesting. You’re not lying.”

“No.” Greg levered himself off the chair and made his way to Mycroft’s bedside. He reached for Mycroft’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. Mycroft’s breath hitched.

“Gregory. Are you…”

“I thought you were dead, you realise.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand in response to his look of chagrin. “I’m just so relieved, you don’t even know.” He took a deep breath and took the plunge.

“I love you, Mycroft Holmes.” Greg rejoiced at the look of utter shock on his friend’s -- partner’s? -- face. “Thought I wasn’t going to get the chance to say it. I’m not going to let our chance slip by again. So, if you’re amenable, I’d like to continue where we left off before our… misunderstanding.”

“Greg, I -- I never intended to imply that you weren’t important enough to spend Christmas with my family. I don’t like to share, you see. When we spend Christmas together, I want it to be just you and me. We can do that this year, if you’d like. Because. Because I…”

“It’s all right, Mycroft. You don’t have to say it back. In your own time. I know what’s in your heart.”

Mycroft smiled, eyes bright. He tilted his head just so, an invitation. Greg lowered his head and captured Mycroft’s lips with his own. God, it seemed like ages since they had last kissed. He was never going without this again. It was like a drug, and he was well and truly addicted.

Greg drew back. “Oh. God, I’m sorry, Mycroft. Should we be acting more...discreet? I don’t want to put your job in jeopardy.”

“It’s a private room, and the door is closed. We need not be more discreet than any other couple who hold high profile jobs. Don’t trouble yourself, it’s all fine.”

“Should I go home and let you rest?”

“By no means. Continue kissing me, if you please.”

“You’re such a posh git,” Greg responded, before doing exactly that. 

The case he had left back in London, in Donovan’s capable hands, was far from his mind. His world narrowed to this room and the man he held in his arms. Reality would intrude soon enough, along with the conversations they needed to have and the obstacles they would have to maneuver around, including a huge Sherlock shaped one. 

The two of them would face it all, together. And they would be all right.  
  
  


  



End file.
